Once Seen Cannot Be Unseen
by Lawson227
Summary: Observations of the Liz/Don relationship & interpretations as seen through various characters' eyes, including their own. Hopefully, the show will continue to cooperate with what I appear to be seeing. NOTE: In the wake of "Anslo Garrick, Pt. 1" I felt the need to tweak CH1 (Red's.).
1. An Unexpected Development

**An Unexpected Development**

**AN/Disclaimer: **Own nothing of _Blacklist_—just having fun playing in this new and very entertaining sandbox. Obviously, I'm intrigued by the Liz/Don dynamic and I'm curious to see where the writers take us. I suspect they're going to be rather evil, because, you know, writers. And on this show, as we've already seen, nothing can be easy or obvious.

**AN2:** While this chapter takes place before the events of "Anslo Garrick, Pt. 1" I've nevertheless tweaked it to reflect some of what we learned in that ep. It's possible more tweaking may occur after Pt. 2.

* * *

To say that Donald Ressler had never figured into Red's plans would be understating it.

Oh, he had his place—every piece on the chess board had its place after all—but in terms of the grand scheme of things, he'd regretfully been relegated to pawn. A soldier, stolidly plodding along, square by square.

Then again, even a pawn possessed the ability to take down a king.

A rare mistake. One he wouldn't make again.

Outwardly, the man had all the grace of the proverbial bull in a china shop—a trait that had initially caused Red to dismiss him as just another off-the-rack, Fibbie, hobbled by poorly-fit suits and a rigid, uncompromising set of standards and mores. Helmet-haired, stone-faced, fists on hips and chin all too often thrust forward as an outward show of aggression, it was as if he'd tumbled, fully-formed, straight off the Quantico Assembly Line.

Red knew the type. Intimately.

Pity, that. It relegated the other man to position of minor annoyance to be tolerated—if necessary, eliminated—when Red had hoped for _so_ much more. The best he could expect now was that Ressler would provide diversion in which occasional amusement _could_ be found, much in the way a cat would find a toy mouse amusing for a short period of time, but by and large, a player of little overall consequence to the greater plan.

However, the mark of one who excelled at their chosen profession was their ability to… roll with the punches as it were. One reason why Red had survived—and thrived—for so long.

And why he now considered Donald in a light other than that of necessary nuisance.

Admittedly, the man was brash almost to the point of lacking all couth and annoyingly arrogant—and yes, Red was well aware of the irony of that little observation. However, that arrogance also happened to be one of Donald's more intriguing traits. One of the traits that had most fascinated Red over the course of their five-year journey. Currently lacking in the finesse to wield it to greatest effect but if mastered—he _could_ become a formidable opponent. A worthy one.

Perhaps, even an ally.

An unexpected possibility, but not entirely unrealistic—especially once Lizzie factored into the equation.

Ah, Lizzie…

Red had deliberately cast himself in role of protector, especially with his knowledge of what Tom Keen actually was, but in an unexpected move, it would seem his involvement in her life had also thrust another into the role of protector, unwitting though it was.

Initially, Donald's alpha male posturing had done little more than amuse Red—annoy him, too, like a gnat hovering too close to his face, when it threatened to impede his plans. Was the man so utterly blind he couldn't see _why_ Red was there? What kind of investigator was he? But somewhere within the subsequent days, as Red mulled how best to handle the insufferable Special Agent Donald Ressler, an undeniable truth began revealing itself. For once not completely certain about what he was seeing, he'd done that at which he'd become so adept—he'd taken a step back and studied.

Observed.

Assessed.

And what he'd learned had been _fascinating_.

Almost from that first case—Ressler bristling with resentment and Lizzie rigid with fear—they'd nevertheless gravitated toward each other. Oh, Red could clearly see Lizzie felt she had to play the game in order to maintain her precarious hold on this new position, still completely unaware how very much her fate rested entirely in Red's hands and that he wasn't about to let her down. Red was also well aware how Donald, too, felt as if he had to play the game, albeit from a different position of course—that of senior agent, the good soldier—reluctantly relinquishing his perceived position of power to an interloper whom he felt had no business on his turf yet making it clear at every conceivable turn who was _really_ in charge.

Well, it was an illusion Red was content to allow him so long as it proved convenient. Harold, too, but he was a different matter altogether and not relevant to the issue at hand.

Donald and Lizzie.

Thrown together as unlikely allies, they'd circled each other like wary dogs, occasionally snarling and snapping and Red couldn't even begin to express how very proud he was that his Lizzie refused to yield. That backbone would serve her in good stead, he'd thought. It was already serving her in good stead, pulling a reluctant acceptance and admiration from the rigid unyielding likes of Donald.

It was why he'd given them the Stewmaker . Far earlier than he might have, otherwise, given the man's gruesome nature, but Red was curious to see what they were made of—separately as well as together.

Donald… well, Donald had behaved as expected once Lizzie was taken. The flat refusals to be left behind, giving no thought for his own safety, so long as there was a chance for Lizzie to be rescued. Unsurprising, there, what with his predictable "I'm in charge, the buck stops here, she's my partner and I'll stop at nothing to get her back," mentality. Boring under most circumstances but a necessary component toward the ultimate endgame. That the man had exhibited an ability for improvisation and a willingness to roll with the punches? That, Red had to admit, had come as quite the pleasant surprise.

So there was one test passed. With flying colors and extra credit, even.

Then they found her. Donald's attention at first focused on him—not so much as target as in question. He knew Red would know and he knew Red wouldn't flinch from the hard truths, should he need to face the worst case scenario. But behind all that, there had been fear, as well. No… Donald might well have been able to hide it from everyone else—frankly, no one else would have thought to look for it, but Red hadn't missed the terror flickering behind the single-minded determination. The solitary question lurking deep behind the impassive cool scrim of gray-blue with which Donald Ressler habitually faced the world. And all it had taken was a subtle tilt of his head and all of Donald's iciness and terror had immediately been supplanted by concern.

And an unmistakable relief.

Now that had been an interesting little tableau. Lizzie, still bound to the chair, Donald crouching before her, gently touching her face and reassuring her in a tone the likes of which Red might never have imagined him capable of dredging up again. Even amidst the ensuing chaos, he'd very clearly heard every word—every nuance—and had filed it away for future reference. After all, it was in times of crisis that true nature often revealed itself—a theory reinforced by what he'd seen mere minutes later outside the cabin.

Neither had been aware of his presence. Mind you, that wasn't so uncommon. His very survival had often depended on his ability to remain undetected. What was unusual in this case was that he hadn't gone to any great pains to mask his presence—he'd merely been several yards behind them, observing as Donald had helped Lizzie from the cabin, supporting her as they slowly walked down the path.

Then she'd crumbled, his strong Lizzie, and it had taken everything in his power to keep from materializing by her side and spiriting her far away. For one, it was counter to his sudden appearance in her life to begin with. And for another, it was important that it not be him. Considering she was currently rather repulsed by him, what with her first intimate exposure to the darker side of his nature.

She needed time to come to terms with that. That she would wasn't in doubt. She needed him—for the job, she thought.

For now, he would allow her to believe that.

Convenient.

But more important to him, however, at least in the immediate sense, would be her reaction in the wake of this experience. Would it be fight or flight? Would she hold it together until she was back in the safety of her home and the imagined safety of her husband's embrace? Or would she turn to the one person she might never have imagined relying on mere weeks earlier?

He'd guessed correctly. Of course.

It had been instinctive and unhesitating, the way she'd turned into Donald and allowed herself release and if his reaction had been a bit more restrained, well then, it was nothing more than what Red would have expected from such an emotionally-scarred and closed-off individual.

Lizzie didn't realize what was happening, but it was clear, Ressler did. He was confused and discomfited and perhaps even a bit angry, but he shunted that aside in order to be the man Lizzie needed in that moment.

He held her and if this time Red couldn't hear exactly what the other man said as he soothed her, that was fine. He didn't need to. The actual words were of little import. Of greater value to him was the tension in Lizzie's hands as she clutched Donald's shoulders and the expression on Donald's face as he held her, hands splayed wide across her back as if providing a barrier against further hurts.

It was the expression of a man who knew it to be something of a futile gesture—who knew he himself would likely be an instrument of future hurt regardless of how much he might wish it otherwise. It was the expression of a man who knew the world wasn't gentle or fair.

It was also the expression of a man who was determined that whatever the future brought with it, he'd be there to face it to the best of his ability. By her side.

And when necessary, supporting her.

Another test passed.

And the seeds of hope, reborn.

After that, it was merely a matter of further observation. He was vastly amused by how utterly unaware of each other they were while at the same time exhibiting such blatantly _painful_ awareness of each other. The shared glances, the silent conversations, the not-so-silent arguments—and that was merely what he was privy to.

What he wouldn't give to be a fly on the wall of the Post Office.

Well, he _could_, but that wouldn't be sporting and it would be against his self-imposed rules of this little game.

So he contented himself with what he could see when in their combined presence and what he could glean from them separately.

How it would pain Donald to know he was far more transparent than the more visibly emotional Lizzie.

Red would keep that particular bit of information to himself until it suited otherwise.

Not that Lizzie was completely unreadable. It was simply that like so many individuals whose emotions lay so close to the surface, she was actually far more adept at compartmentalizing them than someone like the more stoic Donald. Her deepest emotions—the ones that meant most to her—she kept hidden far beneath the surface, allowing the more superficial emotions to serve as barrier.

It took moments of great duress to crack that seemingly volatile façade.

He'd admit a mild curiosity as to her reaction to the news of Sam's death. He knew Donald had been with her then. It had served as balm to the knowledge that he couldn't be.

Especially after seeing how she'd been at the funeral. Tom had done all the right things—behaved in all the correct, supportive spouse ways—but it hadn't escaped Red's notice that every single gesture had come at Tom's initiative. His hand covering Lizzie's during the service. His arms around her while she wept. She stood, rigid, only her head resting on his shoulder as around them a cold autumn breeze blew, and concerned family hovered, and a gleaming casket waited to be lowered into ground that even this late in the year maintained a lush greenness at odds with the generations of death it cradled.

Never once had she voluntarily sought comfort from Tom. Not once had she turned to him.

What a marked contrast to that moment weeks earlier—a desolate cabin, a barren dirt path, faceless, meaningless individuals ebbing and flowing around Donald holding Lizzie.

Lizzie holding onto Donald. Yielding to him in a way she refused to yield to her own husband.

Red wondered about that.

Clearly, she felt as if she had to be strong for Tom, whereas that was a useless affectation with Donald.

Perhaps she sensed that in him, she had an equal.

Yes, he challenged her. Frustrated her. Drove her to the edge of fury, but at the end of the day, Donald _accepted_ her.

Perhaps, most importantly, Elizabeth sensed that with Donald, she didn't _have_ to be the strong one.

It would certainly bear closer observation.

Fortunate, then, that events had been set in motion that would allow him many more opportunities.

After all, if Donald were to be deemed worthy of his Lizzie, Red would have to be absolutely certain the promise he'd sensed in him so long ago was fulfilled.

Still though, it was nevertheless reassuring to know that should anything happen to him, Lizzie would be taken care of.

Whatever other developments might rear their unexpected heads, of _that_, Red was absolutely certain.


	2. Stirring the Hornet's Nest

**Stirring the Hornet's Nest**

**AN:** Tackling Meera next—she's tough because she plays it close to the vest, but at the same time, the exchange between her and Liz in "The Courier" made me think there's quite a bit more to Ms. Malik. Obviously, not having a ton of onscreen interaction to go on, there will be a great deal of supposition going on here.

**AN2:** BTW, since I'm new to writing in this fandom, I suppose I should warn you all I often have a tendency to tweak chapters after posting. (Dangers of late-night posting.) So if you reread my chapters and they seem a little different, I promise, you're not imagining things.

* * *

The violent sounds of the bouncer getting his ass handed to him had only just faded, their brief view of him crumpled on the sidewalk giving way to a blur of gleaming toned bodies and flashing lights as Ressler entered the club with casual, assured purpose, prepared to confront Laurence Dechambou in his guise as The Courier.

"That's hot."

Liz looked at her and if her colleague was startled, she hid it admirably, her well-modulated voice betraying nothing. "You know he can hear you, right?"

"Yep." Meera allowed a faint smile as Liz returned her attention to the screen. The resoluteness of her gaze, the faint tension holding her rigid before the console—interesting slivers of information there. Little things that might escape most people, but then, Meera wasn't most people. Neither were Keen and Ressler and God knows, Raymond Reddington, the reason they were all in this together, as it were, certainly wasn't.

It said something about the breadth of her career that as unusual and fascinating a character as Reddington was, he was but the latest in a parade of unusual and fascinating characters. Criminals—the best ones, at least, were _always_ fascinating.

Which was perhaps why she found herself almost more intrigued by her coworkers, especially the two with whom she spent the bulk of her time.

Together, Keen and Ressler were the proverbial cats thrown into a sack, snarling and hissing, claws drawn and ready to slash. Which was why by and large, their compatibility was more readily revealed whilst separated. Like now. As the confrontation with Dechambou unfolded and it seemed as if Ressler was compromised, Keen leaned forward, knuckles white as she gripped the edge of the console.

"They say you can't feel pain. Prove it."

"We're coming in. All teams prepare to mobilize. First team storm the north doors on my com—"

Crystal shattered over the mic with a musical resonance wholly at odds with the unfolding drama.

"This what you need to see? Wanna see me bleed? See if I react?"

The mic, almost absurdly sensitive, as befitting its top of the line status, picked up the unmistakable sound of flesh tearing. No stranger to the sound, Meera recognized it immediately. One eye on Keen, she could tell the exact moment when her colleague made the connection as well. It wasn't anything obvious—a rapid blink, the muscles of her throat working as she swallowed. Otherwise, she remained impassive, ostensibly focused on the steady, seemingly emotionless drone of Ressler's deep voice.

"I've already lost the only thing in this world I've ever loved. I have nothing in this world except this job."

He was good. Damned good. Especially since, according to his file, he wasn't especially practiced in undercover work. Which meant he was likely speaking from a place of truth. Meera wasn't an experienced profiler but she'd spent enough time around them to have picked up on a few of their techniques and if she heard it, that meant Keen heard it as well.

Dechambou's lilting voice drifted over the comm. "Interesting."

Whatever his motivation, it seemed as if his gambit had worked.

"Except for one thing—"

Or not.

But before she could even draw a breath to speak, Keen was barking into her headset, imploring Ressler, "Get out, _now,_" before addressing the waiting teams, "Asset compromised—hit the building."

An instant later the sounds of fighting, followed by sharp bursts of gunfire flooded the surveillance van and drove both of them out, weapons drawn, despite the fact there were tactical teams surrounding the building. Seconds later, Ressler burst from the building, followed closely by Dechambou who froze, the telltale red dots of multiple gun sights decorating the front of the blouse that cost more than what Meera made in a month.

While she took charge of apprehending the duplicitous Frenchwoman, Keen holstered her weapon and approached Ressler, in animated discussion with the leader of one of the tactical units, blood leaving a pattern worthy of a Jackson Pollock on the sidewalk.

Meera watched as Keen took his left arm and turned it over, her grip visibly tightening as he attempted to pull away, no doubt insisting it was nothing, for God's sake, Keen, just _relax_.

Keen might have been a rookie with respect to field work, but Meera had seen her file—knew the woman's background and knew that Ressler didn't stand a snowball's chance.

Despite his rather vocal protests, he was summarily ensconced in the back of a med unit and having the arm tended to. Not unlike how he'd insisted Keen get medical attention in the wake of the Stewmaker incident. Of course, she'd been drugged and traumatized and was hardly in any position to argue, unlike Donald, who argued. And predictably, Keen argued back.

But she got her way, he was tended to, and unless Meera was very much mistaken, he rather appreciated the attention, even as both of them remained resolutely focused on the case.

"That was a nice thing you did for him."

They were in the back of an SUV, hitching a ride back to the Post Office, while Ressler rode with the tactical unit transporting Dechambou.

"Hm?"

"Making certain Ressler was tended to."

Elizabeth glanced at her, emotions hidden behind a mask of cool blue. "He's my partner. Sort of."

"He is."

"He doesn't want to be."

"He wants Red within his sights. He'll play whatever game he has to."

Elizabeth turned away, her reflection in the car's window oddly pensive. "That's what I'm afraid of."

"You like him."

"I… respect him." Her steady gaze remained focused on something far beyond the confines of the car.

"You like him," she repeated, recalling the embrace she'd caught a brief glimpse of after Ressler had led her from Kornish's cabin. Surprising. And revealing. Information filed away and stored for later review as necessary. She hadn't expected it to be so soon.

After a long beat of silence, Liz's impossibly soft, "I could," filled the space between them, the sigh on which it emerged leaving behind a milky cloud of condensation on the window that conveniently obscured her expression.

Ordinarily, Meera might tease. She'd learned, over the course of nearly fifteen years of service, that humor, oftimes black in nature, served to get them through the worst of times—helped to engender the trust that might save their lives. Eminently practical as well, she'd learned—all too well—about the unique reliance and closeness that developed between partners. It was the sort of trust that could save lives.

And cost them.

And she'd learned, as well, over those nearly fifteen years, when not to stir the hornet's nest.

It would appear this was one of those times.

Still though—there might come a point in the future where a little stirring of the nest might prove… illuminating.

For all of them.


	3. Message Received

Message Received

**AN:** Again, I'm making some presumptions here—in this case, based on a couple of recent interviews. In one, Diego Klattenhoff (Ressler) confessed that he had originally auditioned for the role of Tom because he was interested in playing a bad guy for once and in another, Megan Boone (Liz) said that no one on the show is really who they seem to be. So that's what I'm using to inform this chapter in particular.

**AN2: **Yeah, sorry it's taken me so long on this chapter, but part of me wanted to wait and see what happened during "Anslo Garrick" and after that, well, let's just say I needed smelling salts to recover.

* * *

He considered himself a rational man. Reasonable, even. Definitely smart enough to understand that loathing an inanimate object as much as he did was neither rational nor reasonable.

Tom never imagined he'd hate any one thing as much as he hated Liz's phone.

Sleek, black, FBI issue and equipped with God-only-knows what kinds of security firewalls and codes designed to protect its contents from prying eyes or ears.

But that's not why he hated it. He hadn't gotten that far.

Yet.

No, his reasons for hating the damned thing were far more personal, which in and of itself was irrational.

At first, it was that every time it rang or buzzed or lit up with a message alert, it meant that shortly thereafter, Liz would be bustling around, preparing to leave, and tossing over her shoulder to not wait up, babe—no idea what the day would bring.

He hated the foregone assumption that the day would stretch into night. An assumption that nine times out of time, turned into a truism. So often stretching into the next day, that she'd started leaving a bag in the foyer, packed with a change of clothes and a few essentials.

Not that he'd checked.

He just knew Liz. Knew she liked being prepared.

He thought he'd been prepared. They'd both known that moving to D.C., becoming a profiler would mean logging in long, thankless hours.

He'd had no idea that it would bring her into such direct danger. Not so soon at any rate. But almost from that first day she was returning home with cuts and bruises that she tried to underplay, especially considering what he was recovering from. But when he tried to press for more, tried to make an effort to understand, she'd merely smile faintly and tell him not to worry. She had a good team behind her she assured him, although she refused to offer any specific details. All she said was she was just trying to pull equal weight. Do her part. Be a team player.

Admittedly, he didn't have any goddamned clue to what degree a profiler might play a part in investigations. He knew enough to understand that the nature of the cases she'd be working would be even more intense, even more dark and depraved than what she'd worked on in New York, however, he imagined she'd be at a desk, with a computer, combing through piles of data and evidence and theorizing and compiling dossiers. At least, at the outset.

But direct confrontations? Confrontations that left her bruised and battered and staring off into space with a veiled expression dimming the normally vivid blue of her eyes?

That brought a lunatic into their home?

A naïve misstep, but that wasn't a scenario he'd been prepared to entertain. At least, not just yet.

However, he knew better than to push or probe. The time for that would come. Eventually.

So he stayed quiet, remained the ever-supportive husband even as she grew progressively more distant and distracted. He cooked her meals, ran her soothing baths with Epsom salts, and counted down the moments until that damned phone would ring.

Again.

He wasn't sure when the ringing of the phone started to trigger a change in Liz. Not an overall change—that had been happening gradually—but rather, a change specific to a particular caller.

It wasn't as if it was anything patently obvious, like a designated ringtone or vibration pattern. No… it was more a sense of expectation. She'd light up, just a little, squaring her shoulders, a small smile playing about the edges of her mouth.

At first, he put it down to the job. For all the aches and pains and bruises and sheer evil that Tom knew Liz had already seen in her few short weeks, he knew she absolutely loved what she did. Good for all of them, really. He needed her to love her job. To be committed to it. There was entirely too much at stake for things to be otherwise.

But after a while, he started making note that when the phone rang or vibrated or lit up, she _expected_ it to be someone specific. The typical crispness of her voice as she'd answer "Keen," would shift, ever so slightly. To most people, her voice wouldn't sound altered in the slightest, but to him—the man who'd spent countless minutes and hours and days memorizing every subtle shift of expression, every nuance of tone and body language—it was as obvious as a shout. She'd turn away slightly, usually staring out whatever window was handy or more often, reaching for clothes and keys and bag as she spoke in hushed, rapid tones.

Then she'd disappear, not to be heard from unless she happened to catch a quick spare moment with which to call him. Tell him she loved him. She always told him she loved him. But those stolen moments were never long enough. Always in the background there was an authoritative voice, barking at her, c'mon Keen—time to get going. And just like that, she'd be gone.

He came face to face with the owner of that authoritative voice the same day he learned that Liz didn't work for the FBI—at least, not in the way he thought she worked for the FBI. That was a hell of a day. A turn of events he'd definitely not expected when he set out to confront her about the box. So damned much to absorb and synthesize and just… take in.

Including the man striding toward them, his gaze fixed on Liz. Even though it was the woman by his side who addressed him, Tom could nevertheless feel the other man's gaze boring into him. Sizing him up in that way guys did. And even though his own mind was racing, trying to absorb the enormity of the situation in which he'd unexpectedly found himself, it didn't stop Tom from doing a bit of sizing up of his own, especially once the other man spoke and he recognized the voice from the background of Liz's calls.

About his own height, but more solidly built—light hair and an intense gaze that clearly brooked no bullshit.

And yet… for all the man's outward aggression, he couldn't bring himself to look at Liz for more than a few seconds at a time. And while Liz's entire focus was centered on Tom and his dilemma, her anxious voice assuring him it would all be good just so long as he told the truth, she still spared a quick glance in the other guy's direction, there and gone so fast anyone else would have missed it.

But Tom wasn't anyone else. He was Liz's husband and it was his job to not miss those little things.

And it was in that split second that he knew.

This man—this all-business, straight shooting, outwardly humorless man in the establishment suit was the reason behind the change in Liz's demeanor every time the phone rang. Or vibrated. Or lit up.

Of all the people in the world he would least expect to be suspicious of, Liz topped the list. Despite her background, despite her job… he'd trusted her implicitly. From the moment they'd first met she'd been open and honest and completely forthcoming—a breath of fresh air in an increasingly cynical world. However, it would seem things had changed. That all of a sudden nothing with Liz was as it seemed. Especially where work—where this other man—were concerned.

It would definitely bear watching.


	4. Actions Speak Louder Than Words

**Actions Speak Louder Than Words**

**AN: **Apologies for how long this took to get up. Harold Cooper is an enigma on a good day—and with not a huge amount of verbal exchanges to go on, I had to do a lot of rewatching of scenes. (I know, I know—you're feeling my pain.) Anyhow, after several false starts (and more deleting than you can imagine) I decided to finally take the plunge and post the sucker. I can't promise there won't be tweaking, but here it be.

* * *

Agent Keen burst through his office door, a whirlwind of high color and righteous fury. In the few short weeks of their relationship as agent and supervisor, Harold had never seen such unrestrained emotion from his newest charge.

If asked, he might have surmised that as a forensic psychologist and trained profiler, Elizabeth Keen likely maintained such a tight rein on her emotions, she was no longer capable of fully unrestrained emotion.

There was a reason he wasn't a profiler himself.

"What the hell did you do?" she demanded, the full force of her wrath directed at Agent Ressler who barely batted an eyelash.

"Excuse me?"

Cooper peered over his glasses. "Calm down," he directed with an authoritative edge to his voice few agents under his command had ever failed to note. Or heed.

"Don't _tell_ me to calm down."

Keen was one of them. "Agent _Keen_—"

"That woman was the link!" Pinning him with a furious glare, she continued, her voice rising on a faint edge of hysteria. "She was the only proof that my husband is innocent and now she's what?" She turned her glare on Ressler whose steady gaze had never wavered from her. "Dying? Lying unconscious in some hospital?"

"She's in surgery." And left unsaid was that in shooting Zanetakos, Ressler had saved Keen's life—a specific fact he'd left out of his terse verbal report but that Cooper had gleaned based on the surveillance team accounts.

The maddening calm of Ressler's response appeared to enrage her further. "Have we forgotten that there's a bomb out there?" she ground out.

Ressler rose. "I haven't forgotten anything." His calm fell away to reveal a startling anger and frustration Cooper had yet to see from the other man. And if asked, would have believed him too seasoned and hardened to fall prey to.

Truly, a reason he wasn't a profiler.

"I've been here for seven years—you've been here for seven _weeks_." Ressler's voice was harsh as he leaned in, everything about his presence imposing, but Keen refused to be intimidated—if anything, she matched her default partner in aggression, leaning in slightly.

"We have less than four hours."

"You think we don't know that?"

"What—is Zanetakos going to come out of surgery by then? Because that was the _only_ lead we had."

Harold sighed as his agents squared off against each other, hackles raised with neither appearing ready to give an inch. Which meant any sort of détente would fall to him to negotiate. Or rather, order. With a mental roll of the dice, he directed his command to the one most likely to yield.

Maybe.

"I told you to calm down."

With an audible intake of breath, Agent Keen eased herself down into a chair, visibly gathering her composure while Ressler, surprisingly, backed down as well, retreating behind Keen. There, he tried to adopt a relaxed stance, leaning against the wall, arms crossed, even as he maintained a steely gaze on the back of her head.

Good strategic move on Ressler's part, Harold thought. Neither of them able to see the facial expressions that could so readily trigger knee-jerk responses in the other. It didn't take a profiler to understand that with these two agents, it was all about the physical cues.

It could be developed into a valuable trait as they continued to work together.

If they didn't kill each other first.

* * *

"Would you care to explain why you would surrender your weapon to a suspect in the middle of a hostage situation?"

Agent Keen nodded slowly, though her gaze never wavered. "It was a judgment call. Barnes was going to kill that officer."

"I realize you're new at this, Agent Keen, but some rules don't have exceptions. Giving up your weapon—that happens to be top of the list."

Her voice was calm and confident. "I'm fully aware of our field regulations."

"Since you willfully ignored them, your actions will be subject to a formal review."

She shook her head slightly, something about the motion suggesting the beginnings of an emotional crack—the first she'd displayed. Rather than dismay, however, Cooper sensed the beginnings of anger. Still, her voice remained steady and evenly modulated as she asked, "What does that mean?"

"It means that an administrative panel will decide whether or not you'll be sanctioned." He studied her impassive expression, admirable in one so raw and unformed. "We'll… see where we go from there."

He turned and left the office, signifying interview's end before she could further plead her case although he had the distinct sensation it wasn't him, despite his position as her supervisor, she was looking to question.

Or excoriate.

As he strode through the bullpen, he passed Ressler, head down and ostensibly absorbed in studying data, although Harold had been aware of the other man's occasional glances through his office's windows. It was for that reason—and because it _was_ Ressler who'd reported Keen—that he paused in the hallway outside the bullpen and turned just in time to see Agent Keen making a beeline for Ressler. From this distance, Cooper was close enough to observe their interaction, but too far to hear.

That was fine. In this case, the body language of his two charges would likely tell him more than their actual words. Besides, by this point, he knew them both well enough to have a good idea of how the conversation would go:

Keen would demand to know why Ressler had reported her.

Ressler, defensive, yet knowing he was inescapably right would inform her that it was the right thing—the _only_ thing he could have done. That their duty demanded a certain standard of behavior and that as far as Ressler was concerned, today, Elizabeth Keen had failed to live up to that standard.

And that it was his job to make certain she understand that.

What _was_ unexpected, however, was the faint softening of Ressler's features—there and gone in an instant before his expression hardened into that of the tough FBI field agent who'd been working to capture Reddington for five years.

Also unexpected was the unmistakable hurt that flitted across Keen's features, rendering them soft and revealing her relative youth or rather—her inexperience and yes, even the fear she'd masked so admirably since being thrust into an almost unimaginable situation.

An instant later her body language shifted further, became imploring as she leaned in toward Ressler while in response, his stiffened with clear resolve. Harold could tell the other man was absolutely certain he was correct—both in his assessment of the situation and in having reported Keen. Having read the incident report, Harold had to agree.

Ressler spun and strode away, leaving Keen gazing after him, arms crossed in a defensive posture but everything else about her body language speaking to a certain measure of defeat.

Harold sighed. She didn't get it. That much was clear. Which left him wondering what, exactly, would it take for Elizabeth Keen to understand that her partner was simply trying to protect her.

* * *

"Well, who might this be?" Garrick's paralysis-slurred voice gave the words a sinister, knowing edge. "Someone you know, Red?"

Harold watched as Red's eyes widened in an uncharacteristic expression of shock before being replaced with a far more familiar cold resolve an instant before he spun back to the table on which the unconscious Ressler lay. Cooper could hear precious little of what was being said within the box's confines and what he could hear was muffled and mostly unintelligible. Until the scream. That was painfully clear as Red, after shaking and slapping Ressler to little effect, ruthlessly pressed his finger into the gaping wound on the man's thigh.

The assembled hostages flinched as one at the sound of Ressler's pained scream reaching past the box's boundaries. His startled "Son of a—" was almost immediately truncated by whatever it was Red was saying, intensity and intent clear in every line of his body as he leaned over Ressler, bloodied hands tight on the other man's shoulders, as if determined to keep him conscious and lucid through sheer will alone.

Amidst the urgent murmurings, one sentence cut through—the one sentence Harold had been anticipating. And dreading.

"Tell me the code—_now_."

Red stepped back, roughly propping Ressler up far enough for him to clearly see Agent Keen kneeling with Garrick's gun pointed at her head.

"Do not give him the code, Agent Ressler, that's an order."

Keen shook her head, the motion nearly imperceptible, but her message as clear as if she'd spoken aloud—

_Don't do it. Listen to Cooper. It's not worth it. _I'm_ not worth it._

It would seem she had finally taken her partner's lessons to heart. Which made it doubly shocking that it was Ressler who appeared to be battling to make the right choice, his mouth momentarily thinning with pain and clear indecision, before settling back into something approximating his usual stern countenance. The air felt weighty and thick as they waited—Garrick anxious to pull the trigger as often as it took to drive Red from the box; the hostages, resigned to their inevitable fate.

Into this charged atmosphere, the unmistakable trill of a phone rang out.

"Oh, come _on_."

Despite the fear, despite Garrick's growing aggravation and desperation to get his hands on Red, despite the sheer, blood-spattered horror of the situation, Keen remained cool, even defiant, even as Garrick taunted Tom Keen with the promise of his wife's death.

With everyone's attention momentarily focused on Garrick and Keen and the one-sided phone conversation, Harold took stock of the situation, keeping an especially close eye on his injured agent. He knew, with a gut feeling that had rarely steered him wrong, that the man he once would have considered the rock, the most reliable factor, was now the wild card.

Red took up Ressler's gun, pulling the spare magazine from his pocket and assembling the weapon with chilling efficiency before pressing it to Donald's head—a stark reminder to Harold at how very good this man was at killing. How very remorseless, an opinion substantiated by the quiet statement that somehow managed to penetrate the walls of the box.

"Circumstances have changed, Donald. If you can't save her, you're of no use whatsoever."

Harold's throat tightened.

Ask him this morning—hell, ask him an hour ago—and he would have said it wouldn't matter which agent's life it was—which civilian, short of the President—there was no way, no how, that Donald Ressler would give up the code. Judging by the expression on his face, however—judging by all the fleeting moments, all the puzzle pieces that suddenly seemed to be falling into place and nothing was no longer certain.

"Look at me—_look_ at me! Agent Keen will die. Now is the time."

The two men's glances held for a long, interminably tense moment in which no one moved—no one breathed, it seemed—as they all waited to see what would happen next. Like a Tom Clancy thriller, except this was all too real and no one would be yelling "Cut!" Within that stillness, Harold saw the precise instant Ressler capitulated. Nothing dramatic, just a shallow inhale an instant before he quietly spoke and because Harold knew what to look for, he could see the formation of the word, even though Ressler's lips barely moved.

"Romeo. The access code is Romeo."


End file.
